The Fortune Hunter [22]
with melancholy misgivings at this lean man with hair and whiskers of a lifeless black. Beck suggested a starved black spider, especially when you were looking into his cold, amused, malignant black eyes. He made short work of the guileless brewer, who was dazed and frightened by the meshes in which he was enveloped. Staring at the horrid specter of publicity which these men of craft kept before him, he could not vigorously protest against extortion. Beck discovered that twenty thousand was his fighting limit.
``Leave the matter entirely in our hands,'' said Beck. ``We'll make the best bargain we can. But Feuerstein has shrewd lawyers--none better. That man Loeb--'' Beck threw up his arms. ``Of course,'' he continued, ``I had to know your limit. I'll try to make the business as cheap for you as possible.''
``Put 'em off,'' said Ganser. ``My Lena's sick.''
His real reason was his hopes from the reports on Feuerstein's past, which his detective would make. But he thought it was not necessary to tell Beck about the detective.
VI
TRAGEDY IN TOMPKINS SQUARE
After another talk with Travis, Feuerstein decided that he must give up Hilda entirely until this affair with the Gansers was settled. Afterward--well, there would be time to decide when he had his five thousand. He sent her a note, asking her to meet him in Tompkins Square on Friday evening. That afternoon he carefully prepared himself. He resolved that the scene between her and him should be, so far as his part was concerned, a masterpiece of that art of which he knew himself to be one of the greatest living exponents. Only his own elegant languor had prevented the universal recognition of this and his triumph over the envy of professionals and the venality of critics.
It was a concert night in Tompkins Square, and Hilda, off from her work for an hour, came alone through the crowds to meet him. She made no effort to control the delight in her eyes and in her voice. She loved him; he loved her. Why suppress and deny? Why not glory in the glorious truth? She loved him, not because he was her conquest, but because she was his.
Mr. Feuerstein was so absorbed in his impending ``act'' that he barely noted how pretty she was and how utterly in love--what was there remarkable in a woman being in love with him? ``The women are all crazy about me,'' was his inward comment whenever a woman chanced to glance at him. As he took Hilda's hand he gave her a look of intense, yearning melancholy. He sighed deeply. ``Let us go apart,'' he said. Then he glanced gloomily round and sighed again.
They seated themselves on a bench far away from the music and the crowds. He did not speak but repeated his deep sigh.
``Has it made you worse to come, dear?'' Hilda asked anxiously. ``Are you sick?''
``Sick?'' he said in a hollow voice. ``My soul is sick--dying. My God! My God!'' An impressive pause. ``Ah, child, you do not know what suffering is--you who have lived only in these simple, humble surroundings.''
Hilda was trembling with apprehension. ``What is it, Carl? You can tell me. Let me help you bear it.''
``No! no! I must bear it alone. I must take my dark shadow from your young life. I ought not to have come. I should have fled. But love makes me a coward.''
``But I love you, Carl,'' she said gently.
``And I have missed you--dreadfully, dreadfully!''
He rolled his eyes wildly. ``You torture me!'' he exclaimed, seizing her hand in a dead man's clutch. ``How CAN I speak?''
Hilda's heart seemed to stand still. She was pale to the lips, and he could see, even in the darkness, her eyes grow and startle.
``What is it?'' she murrmured. ``You know I--can bear anything for you.''
``Not that tone,'' he groaned. ``Reproach me! Revile me! Be harsh, scornful--but not those tender accents.''
He felt her hand become cold and he saw terror in her eyes. ``Forgive me,'' she said humbly. ``I don't know what to say or do. I--you look so strange. It makes me feel all queer inside. Won't you tell me,
``Leave the matter entirely in our hands,'' said Beck. ``We'll make the best bargain we can. But Feuerstein has shrewd lawyers--none better. That man Loeb--'' Beck threw up his arms. ``Of course,'' he continued, ``I had to know your limit. I'll try to make the business as cheap for you as possible.''
``Put 'em off,'' said Ganser. ``My Lena's sick.''
His real reason was his hopes from the reports on Feuerstein's past, which his detective would make. But he thought it was not necessary to tell Beck about the detective.
VI
TRAGEDY IN TOMPKINS SQUARE
After another talk with Travis, Feuerstein decided that he must give up Hilda entirely until this affair with the Gansers was settled. Afterward--well, there would be time to decide when he had his five thousand. He sent her a note, asking her to meet him in Tompkins Square on Friday evening. That afternoon he carefully prepared himself. He resolved that the scene between her and him should be, so far as his part was concerned, a masterpiece of that art of which he knew himself to be one of the greatest living exponents. Only his own elegant languor had prevented the universal recognition of this and his triumph over the envy of professionals and the venality of critics.
It was a concert night in Tompkins Square, and Hilda, off from her work for an hour, came alone through the crowds to meet him. She made no effort to control the delight in her eyes and in her voice. She loved him; he loved her. Why suppress and deny? Why not glory in the glorious truth? She loved him, not because he was her conquest, but because she was his.
Mr. Feuerstein was so absorbed in his impending ``act'' that he barely noted how pretty she was and how utterly in love--what was there remarkable in a woman being in love with him? ``The women are all crazy about me,'' was his inward comment whenever a woman chanced to glance at him. As he took Hilda's hand he gave her a look of intense, yearning melancholy. He sighed deeply. ``Let us go apart,'' he said. Then he glanced gloomily round and sighed again.
They seated themselves on a bench far away from the music and the crowds. He did not speak but repeated his deep sigh.
``Has it made you worse to come, dear?'' Hilda asked anxiously. ``Are you sick?''
``Sick?'' he said in a hollow voice. ``My soul is sick--dying. My God! My God!'' An impressive pause. ``Ah, child, you do not know what suffering is--you who have lived only in these simple, humble surroundings.''
Hilda was trembling with apprehension. ``What is it, Carl? You can tell me. Let me help you bear it.''
``No! no! I must bear it alone. I must take my dark shadow from your young life. I ought not to have come. I should have fled. But love makes me a coward.''
``But I love you, Carl,'' she said gently.
``And I have missed you--dreadfully, dreadfully!''
He rolled his eyes wildly. ``You torture me!'' he exclaimed, seizing her hand in a dead man's clutch. ``How CAN I speak?''
Hilda's heart seemed to stand still. She was pale to the lips, and he could see, even in the darkness, her eyes grow and startle.
``What is it?'' she murrmured. ``You know I--can bear anything for you.''
``Not that tone,'' he groaned. ``Reproach me! Revile me! Be harsh, scornful--but not those tender accents.''
He felt her hand become cold and he saw terror in her eyes. ``Forgive me,'' she said humbly. ``I don't know what to say or do. I--you look so strange. It makes me feel all queer inside. Won't you tell me,